


I think I know why the dog howls at the moon

by suzukiblu



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Timeline, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, At Least Everyone From CATWS, Cuddling, Everyone Is Poly Because Avengers, F/M, M/M, Multi, Pack Bonding, Pining, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-11
Updated: 2018-09-11
Packaged: 2019-07-11 06:29:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15966635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suzukiblu/pseuds/suzukiblu
Summary: They drive for a long time. All their old safehouses are compromised now, one way or another. Steve’s skin itches, and Bucky doesn’t speak. Sam plays music that’s old to him and new to them, and Natasha drives. Steve watches Bucky and listens to the music, low and slow, and tries to figure out what he’s going to do. Half the planet’s going to have Bucky on a Most Wanted list after the SHIELD data dump, the other half’s going to have Natasha, and who knows what anyone’s thinking abouthimright now.Sam’s probably fine, but Sam hasn’t shown any sign of going home either way.





	I think I know why the dog howls at the moon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ZepysGirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZepysGirl/gifts).



> Written for ZepysGirl, who wanted CATWS-era werewolf OT4. How I have gone this long without writing werewolf fic is beyond me, but that oversight has now been corrected.

Finding Bucky ends up being much easier than anyone was expecting. 

He’s forgotten about the moon, is the thing. 

Steve can _feel_ him, with the moon--better than he can without. It’s not hard to follow that bond, now that he knows it’s still there to follow. Before, failing to get drunk in a bar in the forties and grieving in the twenty-first century, he’d thought he just couldn’t let go of his pack. 

He really can’t let go of his pack, as it turns out. 

“Bucky,” he says from the other side of the museum exhibit he’s just broken into, holding out a still-bruised hand and feeling the stitches in his gut pull unpleasantly, and someone who might be Bucky or might be the Winter Soldier stares warily at him out of the dark. Maybe he’s both. Maybe he doesn’t know himself. 

He knew enough to come here, one way or the other. 

Bucky, or whoever Bucky is right now, lets Steve lead him out of the dark museum and bundle him away in the van waiting outside. Natasha’s behind the wheel. Sam’s in the passenger seat. Steve and Bucky take up the back, hand-in-hand, and Steve’s skin itches with the urge to let his wolf out. He doesn’t know how Bucky’d react to that, though, so he doesn’t. It’s dark, the moon hanging low and fat in the sky, and all he wants is to be with his packmate. He’s not picky about the how, so long as it’s some part of Bucky. Even if it’s the Winter Soldier, he won’t complain. 

He missed him like a limb. If he has to hold in his wolf to keep him, he’ll hold in his wolf. 

“All good?” Sam asks as Natasha heads off into the night, the moonlight passing over the hood of the van. 

“All good,” Steve says, squeezing Bucky’s hand in his own. Bucky is silent, but gripping him tight as a lifeline; tight as he didn’t manage to on that damn train. 

.

.

.

They drive for a long time. All their old safehouses are compromised now, one way or another. Steve’s skin itches, and Bucky doesn’t speak. Sam plays music that’s old to him and new to them, and Natasha drives. Steve watches Bucky and listens to the music, low and slow, and tries to figure out what he’s going to do. Half the planet’s going to have Bucky on a Most Wanted list after the SHIELD data dump, the other half’s going to have Natasha, and who knows what anyone’s thinking about _him_ right now. 

Sam’s probably fine, but Sam hasn’t shown any sign of going home either way. 

There are a lot of places they could go, but in the end they pick the obvious one. Everything they’ve done in their careers is transparent and public now, so they might as well be transparent and public too. 

“Look what the secret spy organization dragged in,” Tony says when they turn up on his doorstep. He smells stressed and anxious and relieved all at once. “I guess I’m supposed to thank you for saving my life and the lives of a few million of my favorite people, but I’m more concerned you didn’t bother calling when the word was burning down around your ears.” 

“There was a lot going on,” Steve says. Honestly, it just hadn’t occurred to him to call in reinforcements. Too much had been happening too quickly, and their options had been too limited.

“ _My_ life has a lot going on. Yours just destabilized half a dozen governments,” Tony says, then catches sight of Sam and Bucky. “Who’re the backup dancers?” 

“Two long stories,” Natasha says. 

“Sam and Bucky,” Steve says. “Sam, Bucky, this is Tony Stark.” 

“Iron Man,” Bucky says. It’s the first thing he’s said in front of them since the helicarrier. Maybe the first thing he’s said since the helicarrier at all, for all Steve knows. 

“Speaking,” Tony says. 

“Stark men are made of iron,” Bucky says, and Tony quirks an eyebrow--then narrows his eyes. 

“Wait,” he says. “Your name is _what_?” 

“We did say it was a long story,” Natasha says neutrally, raising an eyebrow of her own. “Going to let us in or not, Stark?” 

“You know I can’t resist Captain America’s sad puppy eyes,” Tony says, and Steve sighs. 

.

.

.

Tony gives them a tour, and also a floor. Tony in fact tries to give them each a _seperate_ floor, but that’s a bit much and Steve--well, he needs the others in his space right now. They all seem perfectly happy to all take a room on the same floor, which considering there’s still several rooms left over and plenty of space to go around is not particularly surprising. Bucky still isn’t talking, really, but he listens to what they say and he hasn’t tried to murder anyone, so that’s probably fine. 

Or he thinks they’re his new owners, or something equally horrible. So maybe not really fine. 

Either way, Steve isn’t looking the gift horse in the mouth. If Bucky has the wrong idea about things, well, they’ll have time to fix that later. For right now it’s more important that he’s free and _safe_. God forbid HYDRA had gotten ahold of him again in the fallout. 

Natasha sits down in the living room and starts cleaning her arsenal on the coffee table. Bucky sits down across from her and starts doing the same. Steve’s not sure where either of them got any of the weapons, much less where they were keeping them all. Sam sets up in the kitchen, eyeing the plethora of groceries in the overstuffed fridge with a frown. 

“Did Stark have these sent up while he was giving us the grand tour or were they already here?” he asks. Steve and Natasha look at each other, then just shrug. Knowing Tony, it could be either. “Alright, then. Who’s up for a very early breakfast? Or a very late dinner.” 

“Sounds perfect, Sam,” Steve says, although what would _really_ be perfect would be letting his wolf out to prowl this new territory and scent his-- _not_ his pack, even if part of him wishes it. Most of him. They’re still his people, though. “Need any help?” 

“You could burn water,” Bucky mutters. Everyone looks at him; it’s reflex, at least on Steve’s part. Bucky stares back at them and doesn’t say anything else. 

“Okay, if your cooking is bad enough that Barnes can remember it through seventy years of brainwashing, then no, no I do not need any help,” Sam says, pulling a carton of eggs out of the fridge. “You can set the table.” 

“I can do that,” Steve says after a moment longer spent looking at Bucky, forcing himself to turn away and stand up to go in search of plates. There’s enough cabinets in this kitchen to hide half a battalion, so who knows _where_ they are. 

“Thanks for the warning, Barnes,” Natasha says as she reassembles her handgun. Bucky stares at her briefly, then goes back to cleaning his weapons. She seems unbothered to be ignored. 

Steve . . . he wonders if Bucky knows how he found him. He wonders if Bucky remembers that they’re--that they were pack. The idea he might not is painful, but he’s more worried about him than anything else. If Bucky doesn’t remember, well, then he’ll remind him. 

If he should. If it’s right to. If Bucky would even believe him. 

He sets the table. Sam cooks a hell of a lot of breakfast food. Everyone eats, except for Bucky who hesitates for a long moment before picking up a piece of bacon and biting into it, watching the rest of them warily the whole time. Steve decidedly does not think about why Bucky would be wary about eating, though he can’t help noticing he doesn’t touch anything on his plate until he’s seen one of them start eating their own share of it. If he’s worried about drugs or poison or just can’t do a thing until he sees someone else do it, Steve doesn’t know. It does remind him of Bucky sitting across from Natasha and cleaning his weapons the exact same way she was, though. 

He wants to reach out and comfort his packmate, but the more he sees of him the less he thinks Bucky remembers, and touching him like that might not be the best idea. 

.

.

.

They all clean their plates; Steve clears the table and Natasha does the dishes. They go to bed in separate rooms, and Steve silences the wolf inside, yearning for closeness and _pack_. In his own room, he strips out of his clothes and lets the shape of it come over him, because it _aches_ to keep it in. His body twists and bends and changes into the wolf, big and pale-furred and bright-eyed. He hits the floor on all fours, restless and anxious and _wanting_ , right from the first moment. 

But he can’t have what he wants, so instead he paces the room, sniffing around it, and then lets himself out into the hall with a heavy paw on the doorknob and starts making his way through the rest of the floor. He smells Sam and Natasha and Bucky, all of them quiet and tucked away in separate places, not where he wants them but _safe_ , at least, no stress or fear or blood on any of them, and he smells the remnants of breakfast--or dinner--and Tony’s scent, faint and faded but undeniably present. He smells--

Bucky moves in his room, and Steve goes still. The door opens, and Bucky steps out into the hall. Steve--hesitates. He’s not sure if Bucky will recognize him like this. He wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t, after everything. 

Bucky stares at him, and Steve stares back, trying to look small and nonthreatening. Bucky keeps staring, then thumps a fist against Sam’s door--once, twice. Steve hears Sam get up with a groan, and a moment later his door’s opening too, revealing him all handsome and sleep-rumpled and very distracting to look too closely at. 

“Barnes?” he says, squinting at him in sleepy confusion. Bucky points mutely down the hall towards Steve, who looks back at him guiltily. Sam follows his line of sight, then blinks, slowly. “Huh,” he says. “Didn’t know werewolves came in blond.” 

Steve huffs and sits down, giving Sam a baleful look. Of course werewolves come in blond. What color was he expecting? 

“It’s a dog,” Bucky says, and Steve feels the words stab him through the heart, even though he was prepared for them. Sam squints at Bucky instead. 

“It’s Steve,” he says. “You remember that, right? At least, it’d better be Steve, or else we’re probably about to get killed.” 

“. . . it’s a dog,” Bucky says again, this time sounding hesitant. 

“Werewolves are a thing,” Sam says. “You remember _that_ , right?” 

Bucky is silent, frowning at nothing. Sam sighs. 

“Okay,” he says. “Well, that’s a lot to unpack right there, Barnes, and I am too damn tired to figure out how to right now. Just--don’t worry about it, alright? He’s with us.” 

“Alright,” Bucky says slowly, his eyes flicking to Steve again. Steve barely manages to repress a whine at the sight of his face, so guarded and confused and _not recognizing him_. He can feel Bucky as clearly as he can see him standing there. Can’t Bucky feel him too? Is that gone too? 

Sam goes back to bed. Bucky stays in the hall, staring silently at Steve. He thinks about changing back, but isn’t sure Bucky would handle it well. It’s a messy sight, sometimes--especially when he’s upset. It wouldn’t be pretty. 

Bucky might not even remember _werewolves_. What the hell did they do to him? What’s even _left_ of him? 

In all honesty, though, Steve doesn’t care how much or how little is left of Bucky, because he will go straight through anyone who tries to keep him from him, no matter what. He will do anything it takes to see him safe. _Anything_. He’s Bucky’s alpha, even if the other doesn’t remember it; even if he _never_ remembers it. He’ll take care of him until they’re both dead. 

Bucky comes over and--hesitantly--reaches out and pats his head. 

The sound Steve makes is _embarrassing_. 

.

.

.

They all get up around noon, and Sam makes lunch while Natasha dyes her hair a brighter red in the kitchen sink. Bucky sits at the table, seeming lost for what to do. He still seems to be having trouble making the connection between Steve’s human form and his wolf one, but because he _patted_ him--well, Steve’s not ashamed to admit he hasn’t changed back to human yet. It feels good to be the wolf after holding the change in all night, and better that Bucky will let the wolf in close without wearing that look like he’s waiting for his next set of orders. 

He puts his hand on Steve’s ruff and digs his fingers in, just the same way he used to. 

“Haven’t seen that shape in a while,” Natasha observes after lunch, eyeing her reflection in the mirror she’s propped up on the other side of the table and brandishing a pair of very sharp scissors with a couple of kitchen towels draped around her neck. She measures her damp hair out with a faint frown of consideration, then starts snipping away. 

“Does he not do the transforming thing, usually?” Sam asks, glancing up from the dishes. Steve should really be washing those, but that would’ve meant changing back. 

“Not as much as you’d think,” Natasha says, scissors snip-snip-snipping away. She’s going for jaw-length, it looks like. Steve wonders if it’s a sign of trust, that she’s letting them see this change. 

“I’ve never seen your hair this short,” Bucky says, and Natasha--pauses. 

“It’s been a long time since you’ve seen my hair,” she says, and Steve thinks-- _bye-bye, bikinis_. 

“You used to wear it--” Bucky makes a sharp little gesture across his forehead, and then lower, past his shoulders. “Blunt, here.” 

“Did I?” Natasha is giving him a perfectly neutral look. Bucky’s frowning. 

_“Da,”_ he says, his accent changing strangely. “Natalia. You were such a perfect killer, _lyubov moya_.” 

Natasha’s scissors still, just for a moment, and she gives Bucky a very long, inscrutable look. Steve’s Russian is terrible--“my” something, he thinks that was? 

“So I’ve heard,” she says finally, and then starts cutting again. Snip, snip, snip. “You shot me once. Do you remember?” 

“More than once,” Bucky says, and again Natasha’s expression is inscrutable. 

“Well, I’m glad we’re all bonding,” Sam says. 

.

.

.

Natasha’s gone to talk to Tony, hair freshly dyed and curled and makeup done differently than yesterday. Steve wonders if it’s enough to make her look like a different person to strangers. Probably, since it’s Natasha. Sam’s on the couch, leafing through the newspaper and clucking his tongue every now and then. Bucky’s on the other end of the couch, staring into space with an expression exactly as perfectly neutral as the one Natasha left wearing. Steve’s still the wolf, and lying on the floor at their feet. He has to be. Bucky needs his alpha. Sam needs--well, he’s not sure. Taken care of. Protected. 

It gets a little hard to think of it in human terms, after he’s been the wolf for a while. 

Bucky says something in Russian, still staring into space. 

“Sorry, man, I don’t speak it,” Sam says. Bucky hesitates, frowning faintly, then rephrases. 

“Where’s the captain?” he asks. Sam raises his eyebrows, then looks down pointedly. Steve’s tail wags, because he’s always been so easy for Bucky. Bucky looks down at him, his frown deepening. “No,” he says. “He was--smaller.” 

“Maybe in the forties,” Sam says. “Pretty sure this is the standard size now.” 

“Mm,” Bucky says, and puts his hand in Steve’s ruff just like he used to again, back during the war and back when Steve _was_ smaller, a scruffy little mutt-looking excuse for a wolf that could barely change without having an asthma attack. Steve would burn down the world for him, he thinks. For any of them, but especially Bucky. 

“Do you remember your name?” Sam asks. “Like, actually remember it, aside from Steve telling you.” 

“I don’t know,” Bucky says guardedly. “Maybe. But I only remember how it sounds when he says it.” 

“Yeah, that sounds like Steve,” Sam says, leaning over and putting a hand on Steve’s ruff too. His tail reflexively thumps against the bottom of the couch and he licks Sam’s arm; Sam huffs at him. “Oh, so werewolves like getting petted?” 

Steve wags his tail again, because _obviously_ , and then remembers his human side and forces it to still. It’s not that he _doesn’t_ appreciate the contact, obviously, it’s just not-- 

Sam scruffs his ears, and Steve’s tail starts wagging again. Sam laughs. 

“You’re a little more laid-back like this, huh,” he says. “Or is this something else?” 

_This_ is having his beta back, _this_ is Natasha and Sam safe and perfect and unhurt, _this_ is pacing out the confines of a new territory after losing the old one and dodging a terrible bullet and getting shot so badly that his wolf form still has the stitches. _This_ is Bucky sitting on the couch with his hand in his ruff and Sam’s hand on his head and Natasha’s scent all over the kitchen. 

That’s a bit much to say without a human mouth, though, so Steve just lets his tail wag for a little while longer. 

.

.

.

Natasha comes back, and Steve goes to his room to change back and put clothes on again. His hair is a rumpled mess, and the half-healed bullet wounds still hurt. He pulls himself together and gets dressed, tentatively touching the pack bond in his mind. Bucky doesn’t respond, but something in it-- _ripples_ , for lack of a better word. There’s an awareness there, where before there was only cold blankness. 

Steve exhales, and _hopes_. 

He fixes his hair, makes sure he hasn’t torn any stitches in the change, and heads back out into the common room. The others are sitting on the couch, all in a row, and turn in unison to look at him. It flusters something in his human half, and _satisfies_ something in his wolf. 

“What’s the plan, Cap?” Sam asks. “Aside from you avoiding aggravating your injuries.” 

“Lay low and see how much of this is going to blow over,” Steve says. He can’t really think of it as aggravating his injuries. The moon was full. Still _is_ full, even hidden by sunlight. He’d needed to let the wolf out, one way or another. 

“Probably not much,” Natasha says. The wolf wants to touch her; Steve resists the urge. The wolf wants to touch all of them, get his scent all over them, but Natasha’s the only one who hasn’t touched _him_. 

He doesn’t know how to explain to her how badly he wants to get between her and the rest of the world. 

“Probably not,” he agrees. “But I think we can at least wait until Monday to start cleaning up the mess.” 

“Why Steve Rogers, are you taking the weekend _off_?” Natasha asks with a slow smile. 

“Sounds good to me, personally,” Sam says, rubbing his jaw. 

Bucky says nothing, but watches Steve wherever he moves in the room. Steve doesn’t know what to do about that. 

He does the only thing he can think to, which is sit down on the coffee table in front of him and ask. 

“You know me?” he says. 

“Yes,” Bucky says, eyes glittering strangely. It’s a look Steve doesn’t know, something some stranger put on his face. 

“You know you’re safe here?” he asks. 

“No,” Bucky says. 

“You are,” Steve tells him. “As long as there’s breath in my body.” 

“That might not be very long, the way you fight,” Bucky says, his eyes flicking down--unerringly--to the places he shot him. Steve smiles humorlessly and holds back from reaching out to scent him. 

“I’ll do my best,” he says. 

“Captain,” Bucky says, lifting a hand and--hesitating. It takes all of Steve’s self-control not to snap it up; instead he lays his own out in offering. Bucky hesitates a moment longer, then lays his hand on top of his very carefully, like some feral thing that’s never been touched in any way that didn’t hurt. There’s more animal in him than there is in Steve’s own wolf, at least for this moment. 

Bucky licks his lips, and Steve holds himself back before he can do anything stupid and scare him off. 

“You’re the dog,” Bucky says, like he’s trying to figure out something so much more complicated than that simple fact. 

“I am,” Steve agrees, and that’s the last thing anyone says for a long while. 

.

.

.

There are things they could be doing; maybe even things they _should_ be doing. Sam calls some family members, tells them he’s fine, he’s not in DC right now. Natasha orders new clothes, ones that look nothing like the ones she’s been wearing lately. Bucky stays on the couch, silent and still. Steve drifts between the three of them, never sure of what they need from him. The wolf has some ideas, but the wolf’s ideas don’t translate well into human ones. 

He wants to push into their space, wants to press in close and comforting and hide them away from consequence, from the world they’ve changed, from the things they did out of necessity and the mistakes people will blame them for. It’s not very different from the war, even if it was--mostly--different people that he wanted to protect then. 

They all do what they have to do. They do the best they can with the choices they have, and with the choices they can make happen. 

Sam hangs up the phone. Natasha puts away her tablet. Bucky sits, silent and still. 

Steve’s skin itches. 

“Dinner,” Sam says after a moment, glancing towards the kitchen. 

“You’ve already cooked twice,” Natasha says. 

“What, are we gonna eat out?” he snorts. 

“Point,” she sighs, rolling her head on her neck before tucking her feet up on the couch. “We could always order something.” 

“And find out HYDRA runs the local pizza joint?” Sam asks. “No thanks, I’m feeling a little paranoid for that this week.” 

“I’d say that was a little _too_ paranoid, but I’ve heard worse,” Natasha says, frowning faintly. 

“Heard worse as in ‘heard more paranoid’, or heard worse as in ‘done worse’?” Sam asks. 

“Let’s just say you should cook,” she says. 

.

.

.

Sam cooks. They eat. Tony swings by and steals Steve’s plate for three bites’ worth of food, then forgets about it entirely to talk all their ears off about what he and J.A.R.V.I.S. have been pulling out of the data dump. The wolf doesn’t mind--Tony doesn’t eat enough. The wolf is content, if anything, because Tony is bright-eyed and talking a mile a minute, a savage satisfaction in him. 

“Anyway I’m pretty sure we’re going to see some coups this week, and I _definitely_ lost more board members than I would’ve expected. Although really, I probably should have expected,” Tony says, and Steve nudges his plate a little bit closer to him. Tony doesn’t notice, but everyone else does. Steve refuses to be embarrassed. 

Tony chatters on a little longer, makes a few more dire proclamations and takes a few more bites of Steve’s dinner, and then swoops off in a rush because of something involving Pepper, though he doesn’t explain what. Knowing them, it could be anything from a date to a corporate takeover. 

“Should we be worried about any of that?” Sam says. 

“It’s not Monday yet,” Natasha hums, taking a bite of her own dinner. 

“You know, I’m willing to accept that as an answer,” Sam says, returning his attention to his own. Bucky hasn’t looked up from his the whole time, and is clearing the last of it off his plate as they speak. 

Steve just looks at the three of them, the pack bond in him _aching_ to reach out. 

.

.

.

They go to their separate rooms to sleep, and Steve lets his wolf out again. The moon’s still full, after all, or close enough to it that his wolf can’t tell the difference. He paces his room, then leaves to pace the floor instead. It smells like his people who aren’t his pack, and like a pack member he lost. It makes him yearn for Peggy, for the Commandos, for the past--for anything of his past. 

Bucky’s something of his past, of course. The wolf wants to go to him; wants him close and safe. It wants the same thing for Natasha and Sam, and almost as powerfully. It’s--a lot, wanting all that. 

A lot for his human half, anyway. The wolf just _wants_. 

It’s a lot, though, so instead Steve paces the floor and then curls up in the common room, in the same spot on the floor where he was when Sam and Bucky both touched him and Natasha wasn’t there to. There’s better places to sleep, but he’s slept in worse ones. 

He wants his pack. 

He doesn’t _have_ a pack, really. The Avengers are the closest thing to it, but they’re not quite there. The closest thing he _actually_ has to pack is Natasha bothering him about his social life and Sam reading him cold in the first thirty seconds of knowing him and Bucky not knowing him at all. 

And Peggy, who’s already lived a long, good life without him, and half the time doesn’t know him either. 

He tucks his nose under his paws and represses the urge to whine in distress. They’re all _safe_ , even if they’re not all his, and that’s the important part. So what if Bucky doesn’t remember him and Peggy gets confused sometimes and Natasha and Sam don’t belong to him at all. They’re still all _safe_. They’re alive, and they’re . . . maybe not all okay, honestly, but still _alive_. That’s what’s important. That’s what matters. 

Even if he misses them like a limb. 

.

.

.

Steve wakes up in the middle of the night to the sound of footsteps human ears wouldn’t be able to hear. Instinct keeps him still--it might be an intruder--but it’s far likelier to be Natasha or Bucky. They both walk like that. He doesn’t know how Bucky sleeps, not anymore, but it wouldn’t be the first time he’s heard Natasha walking around in the dark. 

It’s neither of them, it turns out. It’s not even an intruder. Steve blinks in surprise and lifts his head. 

“Sorry, man,” Sam says lowly, giving him a tired smile. “Didn’t mean to wake you.” 

Steve wags his tail. Sam smiles at him again, then heads into the kitchen and starts quietly puttering around. Steve smells something sweet, and gets to his feet to investigate. He’s making hot chocolate. 

“I’d offer you some, but I don’t know how well that’d go over with a wolf’s stomach,” Sam says wryly. Steve wags his tail again and sits down beside him. Chocolate does not go particularly well with a wolf’s stomach, in fact--Steve’s eaten a lot of things as a wolf, and chocolate was definitely one of the bigger regrets--but being close to Sam is better than being alone in the living room. 

Sam goes about making his hot chocolate, and Steve follows him around the kitchen like a dog, basking in his presence. He’s probably being annoying, he thinks, but it’s very hard to stop himself and Sam doesn’t seem to mind. He thinks the only way he _could_ stop himself was if Sam seemed to mind. 

“Living room?” Sam suggests. Steve bounds ahead of him and jumps onto the couch. It’s a bit too much, maybe, but--

His ears prick, and his head swivels. 

“What’s got you so excited?” Natasha asks from the hallway, raising an eyebrow at him. He sits down sheepishly, lowering his head. Her new bright hair and new makeup and new clothes are all perfect, like she hasn’t slept at all. 

“Dunno, nobody’s shooting at us so I can’t imagine what’d do it,” Sam says, sitting down next to him on the couch. Steve huffs, setting his head on Sam’s shoulder. Sam makes a mildly surprised noise, and Steve’s ears flatten as he realizes--that’s strange, yes, that’s too much. 

He pulls back and jumps down off the couch, shifting restlessly and debating crawling under the coffee table to escape. It wouldn’t be very dignified, but he’s not that attached to his dignity. 

“Hey, no, it’s fine,” Sam says. “Just surprised me. You haven’t been that touchy-feely with the human face on.” 

Steve tries not to look worried. Tony’s got enough “sad puppy eyes” ammunition without him going around getting in the habit of actually _making_ them. Sam gives him a thoughtful look, taking a sip of his drink. 

“You need petted more, man,” he says. 

Steve does _not_ wag his tail at that idea. He steps away from the couch and heads towards the hallway, planning to go back to his room and turn human again before his wolf can get him in any more trouble. Natasha raises her eyebrow again as she steps out of his way. 

“I keep telling him to go out and meet a nice pack,” she says. Steve’s ears droop automatically and he lets out a quiet whine--he can’t help it, in the wolf. He doesn’t _need_ to go meet anyone new. He just needs . . . 

“Who’s messing with the dog?” Bucky asks groggily from the door of his room, rubbing at his eyes. Steve perks up again immediately, just as unable to help that reaction. 

“Me, I suppose,” Natasha says. Bucky grumbles back something sour in Russian, stepping forward and shoving a hand into Steve’s ruff. Steve leans into the contact, not even trying to figure out what he said. It made Natasha snort, though. 

“I think he’s doing it to himself, actually,” Sam says. Bucky scowls at that, dropping down onto one knee and eyeing Steve, who is helpless to keep his tail from wagging. It’s _Bucky_. 

“You feel weird,” Bucky says. “What the hell is that about?” 

Steve blinks at him, confused, then startles--is he talking about the pack bond? Does he know what it is? Does he _feel_ it? 

“That’s not helpful,” Bucky says, scowl darkening. 

Steve jumps him. He shouldn’t, it’s a _terrible_ idea, but he can’t help it. Bucky goes down cursing and Steve licks his face. 

“Get off!” Bucky protests. Steve licks him again, tail wagging furiously. _“Steve!”_

Steve is absolutely _never_ getting off him. Bucky feels him, at least enough to know the pack bond’s there and respond to it, Bucky knows his _name_ , Bucky is safe and unhurt and _here_ \--

“Stop that,” Bucky says tightly, wrapping his arms around him and burying his face in his ruff, his knees coming up to squeeze his sides. Steve burrows in as tight against him as he can, hooking his forelegs over his shoulders. 

“Shared life experience, hm?” Natasha says casually. Bucky manages to push himself up against the wall, admittedly without any help from Steve, who really could care less about sitting up. 

“You’re crushing me, Rogers,” he grunts, and Steve licks his face again, tail wagging even harder. Natasha makes an amused noise and comes over to crouch next to them, reaching over to give Steve’s head a light little pat. She probably doesn’t expect him to push into it so eagerly, but her brief flash of surprise is quickly hidden and she gives him another pat. 

“Oh, what, now you’re all having a party without me?” Sam says. 

“Clearly,” Natasha drawls. Steve perks up and looks over at Sam, tail wagging hopefully once or twice. Sam snorts, getting to his feet and coming over too. 

“You know, werewolves aren’t my specialty, but somehow I get the impression that was an order,” he says lightly, sitting down against the wall on Bucky’s other side. As soon as he does, Steve drapes himself over Bucky’s lap and kicks his legs up into Sam’s. 

In his defense, he was only _half_ thinking about dragging Sam over if he didn’t come on his own. Really. 

Sam laughs lowly and rubs his back, and Steve’s tail starts wagging again. He’s very sure he’ll be embarrassed by this later, when he’s remembering it as a human, but his wolf doesn’t care and honestly he thinks it’s got the right idea. Sam’s petting him and Bucky’s still half-embracing him and Natasha’s hand is on his head and they all smell like him, like _his_ , and it’s very--and it’s just--it’s _good_. 

It’s worth all the rest of it if he can have this feeling again, even if just for a little while. 

And one day, maybe, it’ll be for longer.

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr!](http://suzukiblu.tumblr.com/)


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